Holy Well, Llanfihangel Genau'r Glyn

Every time I look
into the well
the level is the same
placid equilibrium:
it never rises nor falls.
No water is drawn from it
these days, not for drinking
nor for healing. Little rain
Runs in around the slate cover
over the grill that tops the shaft.
Around the edges a shiver
might be seen on the flat surface
beneath, the dark water
inscrutably responsive to enquiry,
deflecting the question
for further articulation.
Here is tranquility, and yet
yards away the stream rushes
over the bank above and crashes
noisily to its channel below
when in full flood, or ebbs
back to a trickle
after a dry spell:
It is not constant like the well.
Within the well
The pool lies still
Beneath the grill cover,

At the nearby falls
There the stream fills
The air with living water.